Gods be Good
by LexVictoriaX
Summary: Daenerys Targaryen's days are no longer her own, but her nights are another matter entirely... And she will never forget.


So, funny story: I went to Comic Con in Montreal dressed as Daenerys and Jason Momoa ended up being a last minute panel addition. I met him, I took a picture with him, he was so amazingly cool. I've never written any sort of 'Song of Ice and Fire' fanfic, so I'm hoping this turned out all right! Dany and Drogo are insofar my favourite pairing in that series and I hope I do them justice here!

I'm still working on my other fics, and I have a couple of Doctor Who ones lined up. Whether or not this will happen before Christmas is a different matter entirely, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed :P

So yeah, it's late, and I'll stop talking. Please, enjoy!

**Disclaimer**: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire.

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GODS BE GOOD

He'd come to her in dreams.

Her days were filled with fine silks and people who doted on her hand and foot, smiling and bowing and pledging their loyalty. Liars, all. Her days were not her own. Had the Gods been good, Daenerys Targaryen would have been raising a son in the endless grasslands of the Dothraki Sea, her Horselord husband by her side. They would have taken the Seven Kingdoms by storm. Together. But the Gods were not good. That's why they were Gods.

And Dany's days were not her own.

Her nights, however, were a different matter entirely. In the dark, he'd come to her, olive eyes as expressive as they had been in life, soft and sweet and only for her. Some nights they'd make love, others would be spent just holding each other; her fingers tracing the scar on his brow as he pressed a kiss to her thumb, fingers sifting through her pale hair. Sometimes she'd see them both: Drogo and Rhaego, her boys in a dream, and they'd be a family. Daenerys witnessed her son grow to boyhood in fantasy, silver eyes joyful and full of life, dark hair painfully reminiscent of his father. He was the Stallion Who Would Mount the World.

But dreams were not always pleasurable. After all, death and lies creep, from darkness, like a pestilence: poisoning thoughts, turning aspiration to delusion.

In dreams, she'd kill him for the twenty-fifth time, arms slim but strong as she suffocated him, his body seizing weakly under the soft material. She would never forget how stubborn he was, how he had been hurt _so much worse_: the Great Khal Drogo, never defeated but for scratch.

And she'd dream about her decision; the second in time that felt like an eternity, the moment in which she decided to revive her Sun and Stars, no matter the cost. She loved him so completely. She'd relive the dead look in his eyes, the feeling of being cheated: the anger, the confusion, the utter despair.

Those nights, Dany would wake in cold sweat, heart pounding. She would go somewhere dark and quiet, away from the silks and pretenders and into the space where stars twinkled bright as dragon fire... After all, anything of importance in a person's life took place under the open sky. She would look up, wondering if her son and husband could see her. If they were even there. Sometimes, she'd feel abandoned and alone… Others, the young woman could have sworn they were present, though proud or disappointed she did not know. And Dany would let herself speak, the words soft but sure. Words that she would never allow herself to think during the waking hours, where the sun dissolved all shadows and therefore all secrets. She could not hide under that scrutiny; daylight left her bare. So did night. But darkness left her bare where no one else could see.

"_Shehk ma Shieraki anni_," she'd whisper into the sky, a kiss on her lips. "I am so sorry."

And Daenerys Stormborn would finally collapse, soft sobs wracking her form.

Memory would come flooding back then, painful. And perhaps more painful the fact that, as time passed, the Mother of Dragons would lose pieces of him; of them. Real pieces like the exact colour of his eyes or the feel of his hair, and fake pieces like Rhaego's unwavering smile. The loss would make her feel sick, until she wouldn't feel at all.

And once she had lost all the pieces, Dany saw them both again, more beautiful than she had ever dreamt. Logically, she knew they weren't real. She was rescuing her dragons; her _children_. Rhaego was no longer her child. Not on this plane. And yet there he was, gurgling happily in his father's arms. His strong, protective father, who cradled the babe with an awareness and care she had never thought she'd see in him. He looked so happy. So _proud_.

Money and power and fame had always been her brothers quarry, all Dany had ever wanted was to be loved. To belong. And she belonged there, with Drogo and their son. She belonged with this fierce warrior, this uncharacteristically kind and gentle man who had given her the Wind. She would have given him everything. She had _tried_ to give him everything. She had, unwittingly, sacrificed the life of their child... What more did she have? If given the choice, the pale-haired Khaleesi would have readily exchanged her life for theirs.

And as the young woman leaned down to touch the baby in her husband's arms, fingertips brushing the softness of Rhaego's skin, Daenerys wanted to cry. She didn't. Despite the fact that seeing them both had broken the stone around her heart, she stayed calm, smiling sadly at her boys. "_Jalan atthirar anni_," Drogo breathed, head up and searching to nuzzle against hers. Dany's heart skipped a beat, though she moved out of the way just as he missed his mark and planted a kiss on the corner of her mouth. He looked confused. Hurt.

But if he had kissed her, she didn't know what she'd do.

"Stay with me," he murmured. "With us."

Daenerys looked heavenward, biting her lip as she tried not to break. They were not real. They were an illusion. She had no son. She had no husband. She would never have this family. Her dragons, _they_ were her family.

Turning away from them was the single hardest thing she'd ever have to do, despite the fact that they were an illusion. She would never again bear them witness, and their memory would slowly fade from her dreams until they were little more than shadows, every so often coming to light in sharp, painful bursts of remembrance. In truth, the only time the Mother of Dragons would ever see her boys would be in their namesakes: in black and red or green and bronze scales, melting across blue sky.

And people would wonder at her children, and they would shower her with corrupted gifts, and some would pray to their Gods for her victory, or for her downfall.

_Gods be good._

But the Gods were not good; that's why they were Gods.


End file.
